Where To?
by Kelslyn
Summary: Johnarty/Jonlock Moriarty has abducted John, but what will he do with him, and how will Sherlock cope without his precious blogger? Smut will come a little later, mostly plot in the beginning chapters
1. Where To?

This is a combination of Johnarty and Johnlock. The first chapter might be a bit boring for some of you readers, but trust me, the smut will come in some later chapters I'm working on. This is my first fanfic ever, so i hope you like it. Reviews are welcome and would be extremely appreciated! ~kels

A man sat at on the bar stool of a pub deep in London, he had short blonde hair sweeping his head and a short stature. He stared blankly at his beer with an expression he held a lot of the time on his stony face. His name was John Watson, and he was waiting. Waiting for the right timing, for the perfect punch line. After all, he was an expert in these scenes.

John had just called it off with a girl. Well, she called it off with him, but that wasn't the point. Her name was Serena, or maybe it was Sarah; anyway he'd met her in this exact pub, in the exact same way he'd met the girl before her, and the girl before that, and before that, and that, and that.

He looked over his shoulder and spotted her, a woman with long light brown hair, a sloping yet pointed nose and deep-set brown eyes; a slim body draped with slacks and a dress shirt complemented her almost elf like features. The corner of John's mouth twitched into a grinning smirk as he saw her coming his way. She stepped up to the bar, ordering something fruity and feminine. John leaned towards her and asked giving his most charming smile, "Would you like something besides that drink to keep you company?"

She looked up from her purse, which she was fumbling with to find something to pay with. She beamed a bit teasingly, "Only if it's good company."

John stood and slid closer to her removing 5 pounds from his jacket pocket and handed it to the bar tender keeping his gaze on the woman. "I can promise you, I'll be outstanding company." He told her sportively.

She looked him over discreetly, and lifted her hand out for a handshake and purred, "I'm Samantha Nelson."

John took Sam's hand but turned it over and stole a kiss on the back of it, "Flattered to meet you Sam; John Watson."

Hours had passed by, all the while John and Sam chatted over their drinks. He would make a witted joke and Sam would chuckle along with him. Sam would tell about her job as a receptionist and John would laugh at her stories. John behaved himself, being a true gentleman, though the chemistry between them was boiling. But it was missing something, and John could feel it in the pit of his stomach. An itch that could never be scratched; yet john showed up every weekend trying to find the woman that would soothe the itch.

At the end of the night, John left the pub with the woman's number in his mobile and a hope that Sherlock hadn't noticed his leaving.

John arrived at his flat on Baker Street, quietly stepping up the stairs and into the living room decorated with a collection of oddities. John had quarreled with Sherlock about doing something with all of this junk, but had miserably failed not being able to keep Sherlock on the 'boring!' topic of organization. _I know where everything is and that validates as organized! _Sherlock had informed John defiantly.

John walked into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, setting his phone on the counter, and didn't even stop when he saw that Sherlock was standing at the mess of a kitchen table looking intently into his microscope, exactly as John had left him.

Sherlock Holmes was a tall lanky man, with high cheek bones and other sharp structures on his long face. He suddenly looked up at John making his black and curly hair tremor with the movement and told John dismissively, "Get me one while you're at it." John rolled his eyes and continued to make a second cup for Sherlock. He opened the fridge to a horrific smell and a worse sight. Sitting on a plate sat a disembodied foot, rotting and pasted with dirt. John contracted from the smell and quickly took out the made up tea and slammed the fridge shut. The tall man kept his eyes on the other shorter one and abruptly spoke, "You've been out." He said it as a statement, not a question, Sherlock never really had to ask questions.

"If you weren't so wrapped up in whatever's under that slide, you would've noticed when I'd left." John contorted, not angrily though; he was used to Sherlock's habits and didn't really mind this one. But other habits, like the foot, were ones John just had to put up with. John sat the pot on the stove top and poured in the tea, heating it up.

Sherlock took a deep sigh and observed hurriedly, "Your sleeve is damp, probably from holding a drink. You only drink tea or beer, so it must be a beer from that pub you've been visiting every weekend. Unless you started wearing a floral cologne, you met yet another desperate girl."

"Sherlock!_" _John grumbled, warning him to stop.

Sherlock continued as if John hadn't said a word, "You got her number, there are finger smudges on your mobile that are too small for your own prints, from when she typed in her contact." Sherlock swooped up John's phone from the counter and turned it over, "Suggesting from the keys that a more polished her name consists of 1 A, 1 M, and 1 S. Best likeliness that her name is Sam." He paused and reservedly corrected with a minor grin, "Or _his_ name."

"Oh shut it," John snapped, "it's short for Samantha."

"Of course." Sherlock agreed and returned to his microscope. Just then the kettle screeched its announcement that the tea was heated. John took kettle off the stove and made up two cup for himself and Sherlock. He sat one of the tea cups by Sherlock, then took his own into the living room and got comfortable in a chair with his laptop.

"I still think we might have had something there." John protested taking off his jacket as he and Sherlock crashed into their flat.

"Oh please, _my dear little angel has been missing for 3 day, please Mr. Holmes won't you find her?_"Sherlock scorned as her removed his dark blue scarf and black coat. "It's obvious, John. Her daughter has simply run away, children around that age's hormones are off the charts. You know; rebellion, resentment, anxiety, and all that. She'll be back with her mother within a week."

John paused thoughtfully and asked, "So, did you ever go through a rebellious phase?"

Sherlock made a scoffing sigh and answered, "I had more control over myself. But I'm sure if you asked my brother, he'd say I'm still in that phase." as he strode towards his room, unbuttoning his shirt to get into something more comfortable,

The blonde raised his eyebrows doubtfully and asked wittily, "Who cares what Mycroft says?" Sherlock made a small chuckle with a humored smirk and closed his door lightly. John shook his head and laughed to himself just as his mobile vibrated in his pocket. He drew it out and checked the message

**Had a great time last weekend, are you free tonight? –SN**

John was slightly surprised at the text, he hadn't talked to Sam since that night and didn't expect to hear from her. Granted there were loads of numbers John hadn't used in a long time on his mobile.

**Yeah, meet me at the pub in 30 minutes. –JW**

"Sherlock? Sherlock I'm going out!" John called out to hear through the walls, "I don't know when I'll back!"

Sherlock hollered back slightly displeased, "Fine, alright." John took that as a goodbye and got his jacket back on stepping down the stairs. They moaned at him in protest, as they did every time from their old age.

John made his way through the streets until he could catch a taxi. Once he finally got one he slid into the back seat, "Where to?" the cabbie asked in sing song voice

"Old Man's Pub, please." John answered distracted by his phone

**Already there love. –SN**

John looked from the text to the cabbie and back again, "In a hurry please." John called to the cabbie hastily. The cabbie obliged stepping hard on the gas petal, sending John back against the seat and to slide a bit from side to side with each turn. John tried to keep composure tightly holding onto the handle on the roof of the car.

Soon, sooner than usual, John arrived at the pub and stumbled out of the cab. As he stepped onto the sidewalk, the taxi immediately sped up back into traffic; threatening to hit other cars, the cab honked several times. John looked back at the direction the cab flew off to in surprise, in all his life he'd never seen a cabbie drive like that.

He shook his head dismissing it and strode into the pub, making up a charismatic smile for Sam. He swept the booths and stools with his eyes but didn't see her. John took out his phone

**I'm here, where are you? –JW**

**In the bathroom, I'll be out in a minute. Go ahead and pick out a booth. –SN**

John put his phone away and started for a booth in the far corner and took a seat. The soldier waited anxiously for Sam, looking around for her and squinting at the menu at the bar; though he'd visited this pub enough that he knew everything on it.

John checked his phone for the time after 6 minutes, when he did; he heard someone walk up to the booth and looked up just in time to see them sit across from him. He started his smile, thinking that it was Sam when he heard them, but his face fell to a blank and menacing glare when he registered who it was.

"Hellooooo, Johnny boy!" the man greeted happily as he crossed his legs. John just stared, unable to come up with a response. The man feigned disappointment, "Aren't you glad to see me?" raising his hands to present himself.

John thought of what to do suddenly and whipped out his phone, quickly texting Sherlock

**Moriarty. –JW**

Moriarty was a man slightly taller than John, who had deep set eyes and dark combed back hair. He constantly wore a suit that greatly contrasted from his voice which he played with in every word. Moriarty tisked John, "Oh, that's not going to do you any good." John turned suspiciously to Moriarty for an explanation, but he merely shrugged.

John took a deep irritated breathe, Sherlock had told him if something like this was to happen with either Mycroft or Moriarty, John was to stay silent that hopefully they wouldn't catch on to everything about him. But John had to seriously consider whether or not he was going to speak anyway. He'd never gotten his revenge on Moriarty for what he did to Sherlock and himself; and John wasn't one to keep quiet. But he couldn't do much in public, "What are you doing here?" John asked with a biting tone.

Moriarty studied John smugly for a long moment, like he was satisfied with what he was seeing, "Isn't it funny, how you can just _bump_ into people?"

"I'm not going to tell you how to can get to him if that's what your here for." John instantly presumed, holding even eye contact and voice.

"Oh, why would I want that?" Moriarty inquired critically, "I know what he's doing at this very moment. You see, I know a guy, who knows a guy; if you catch my drift."

John suddenly remembered what had originally brought him here, "Wait, where's Sam? She,"

"Don't worry about it, love. Besides you didn't really like her anyway." Moriarty hummed.

John became defensive, though it was true, "What did you do to her?" Moriarty ran his thumb and pointer finger across his mouth in a motion that said _my lips are sealed. _John's jaw dropped and he repeated with much more alarm, "Oh my god, Moriarty what did you do?"

Moriarty face darkened, "What do you _think_ I did?" John didn't even want to think about it, he just gawked at the man across the table. Moriarty prompted to John, "Ask me what I want, Johnny boy."

John hated to play along, but he didn't seem to have another choice, "Then what do you want, Moriarty?" John demanded, annoyed by the sharply dressed man.

"Please call me Jim love."

"No, what do you want."

Moriarty's exposure suddenly sifted on cue and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and intertwining his fingers. His face became grave and casted by darkness, but there was still a twinkle in his eye. "I have a little proposition for you, but you can't quite act it out on Baker Street."

"So what?" John snorted, "You're going to abduct me again, hmm? Make Sherlock dance to try and discover me?"

Moriarty looked up at John, lifting an edge of his mouth in a smirking grin and said in a low voice, "Something like that." He raised one of his hands and snapped his fingers curtly.

Two men got up from their places sitting on stools at the bar and made their way towards John. They were tall and large, almost like body builders; and obviously much stronger than the stout soldier. John jumped out of the booth and sprinted for the door in an attempt at getting away, but it was futile as the two body guards caught up and locked their arms with his. John struggled and thrashed in the two's grip, knocking over some furnishings, and wasn't getting anywhere fast as they toed him to the back exit. "Help, please no!"

Moriarty calmly stood up and paced to the bar in long steps, where the only witness, the bartender was standing at his post in horrified shock and a telephone in his hand ready to dial. Moriarty took out several hundred dollar bills and pressed them on the counter towards the bartender, "I think that will cover the costs, for," he leaned forward and rumbled, "customer confidentiality."

The man behind the counter nodded rapidly in understanding, yet still fearful, and dropped the phone to the ground. Moriarty smiled grandly and exclaimed good-naturedly, "Good then," he stepped a number of steps towards the back exit then turned back looking around the pub, "You know what? I kind of like this place, I might just visit back again." He winked at the bartender then pushed the exit open and walked into the back alley, where John and his hired help were waiting for him in a taxi.

Moriarty rounded the vehicle and hopped into the driver's seat taking a tight hold on the steering wheel. He turned to look back at John and grinned. He sat in the seat, trying to keep a brave composure, but was failing. John suddenly roared, struggling against the handcuffs and tape he was now restrained by, "Moriarty you crazy bastard, let me go!"

The driver didn't even flinch, just continued to smile then said in a voice John had heard before, "Where to?" One of the guards took out a towel and abruptly held it up to John's mouth and nose as he was distracted by Moriarty's words, making John lose consciousness from the chloroform.


	2. Liberate

Sherlock was lounging on the couch in his loose pajamas, resting his head on a pillow and had his fingers to his lips in deep thought. He stared at the ceiling, like many times he'd done before. The plainness of the ceiling let his mind roam free to explore any subject; its very emptiness giving an infinite amount of possibilities.

He suddenly desired his cell phone, as it was sitting on the table several yards away. "John!" he called out in the silence, "John, come here!" But there wasn't an answer for many minutes. "John!" he tried again. Sherlock sat up, looking around for clues of John's presence; there were none, "John?"

He swung his legs off the couch and padded to the table where his mobile sat. Sherlock lightly picked up the mobile and checked his memos; no new messages. Sherlock scowled and thought, _John's probably spent the night with Sam. He'll be home by the evening._

The tranquil man sighed audibly. Why did John always waste his time on these women? He didn't care about them, not one, not really. He'd see one for 2 weeks, not even being able retain any details about them.

But Sherlock knew, he'd known for a long time; why John was so in denial.

John woke up in a daze, as he tried to remember what was going on, he sat up slowly and studied his surroundings. He was lying on a soft bed with white and grey sheets, the walls of the spacious room where a dark blue color. Directly in front of the bed at the wall stood a metal door without a handle, John looked to his left and saw a clock sitting neatly on a metal bedside table, 10:37pm. He glanced around the room one more time, starting to remember the night before.

He suddenly realized the danger in which he was in and threw the blanket off his legs, sitting at the edge of the bed he held his head in his hands. "Moriarty." He whispered in disgust under his breathe

"Someone say my name!?" Moriarty's voice boomed over invisible speakers, you could hear his comical essence in it. John's head shot up and he went into an aggressive stance, have been startled by the piercing noise.

John loosened his posture as he saw that there was no immediate threat. He shouted hesitantly at the air, "Moriarty, what have you done? Where am I?!"

Moriarty responded almost mournfully, "Oh come on, don't put on such a long face, it's not attractive on you."

John pressed his fingers to his eyes in distress and sighed, "You insane son-of-a-bitch." He held his head back up to the ceiling and yelled, "You can't just lock me up in a cage, Moriarty!"

"But I already have, love." Moriarty revised amusedly

"What do you want with me?" John inquired impatiently

Moriarty's voice changed to something like he was talking of a revelation he'd had, "I plan to, mmm" he savored the next word pleasingly, "liberate you."

John said exasperated, "Liberate, what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

There was a long moment before Moriarty's voice rolled over the speakers, "Sequence 1 has commenced." Then there was nothing, just the silence Moriarty's voice echoed making the quiet more deafening.

It'd been three days, John hasn't come back yet. Sherlock ran about the flat, looking for a note, a muddy pair of shoes, a jacket; anything he could deduce. He'd texted John 16 times, and there was still no answer. He made his way up to John's room where he stood in the doorway, with a tightly made up bed, next to it sitting a bedside table with a simple lamp and digital clock set to military time. His closet was slightly open, neatly holding shirts and nice pants; his dresser had nothing on it. Everything about the space screamed to Sherlock who John was, but nothing to hint at where he was now.

Sherlock paced in John's small room when he remembered Sam. He hadn't thought of her before, had underestimated how much she could've twisted the situation. Sherlock smiled and trotted for John's computer searching for Samantha Nelson on the British government data base. Sherlock had hacked it a long time ago, Mycroft changed the passcodes many times before in retaliation, but Sherlock could always figure them out. As soon as he hit enter a portfolio link popped up. Checking that the date was recent, in fact it was republished just the day before, he opened it.

_Name: SAMANTHA LILY NELSON Gender: FEMALE Age: 30_

Sherlock couldn't help but say aloud, "Shooting a little young aren't we John?" He scrolled pass the useless things, such as eye color and height, to the main data.

_Status: DECEASED_

Sherlock's expression hardened, John was in danger. But from whom?

Beside the status there was a link to the report of her death. Inside it read: _Found in the dumpster behind Old Man's Pub by Chris Brazels (the working bartender) The jugular vein and both carotid arteries suffered complete lacerations. Cause of Death: LOSS OF BLOOD Classification: HOMISIDE Suspects: NONE_

"Idiots!" Sherlock groaned, "I'll have a little chat with Mr. Brazels, then we'll see if there aren't any suspects."

Not but 20 minutes later Sherlock was dignified in a bar stool at Old Man's Pub. "What's your poison?" the bartender asked briskly. The man had thick brown hair that he styled back and a bulky body from a bad diet. He had a sharp jaw and an italic nose that strangely went well together.

Sherlock lifted his head and noted the name tag that read _Chris. _He smiled and answered indifferently, "None, I'm not here for a drink, Chris. I'm here for you."

Chris shifted his feet, becoming tense, "Oh? What for?"

Sherlock straightened up, her already knew Chris wasn't the killer, "You found Samantha Nelson dead, did you not? I'm part of the investigation." Sherlock lied.

The bartender nodded, "I never thought I'd have to see a stiff, and I think I could've gotten through life without ever it."

"Quite, now that night you found her; did anything suspicious happen? Even if it was someone simply giving you a look." Sherlock questioned.

Chris paused than looked down and began to prepare a drink no one had ordered, "No, it was just like any other night." Sherlock squinted at him as he busied himself, he was lying.

Sherlock suddenly stood and lifted the chair he was sitting in and the one next to it, "The indent my chair made on the carpet is less pronounced than the other; meaning that my chair was moved. You could say that it was moved for cleaning, but if that were true then both indents would be the same. You could say that a customer had moved it, but who moves bar stool chairs?" Sherlock sat the other chair down and brought his chair up to lay on the counter and examined a chip in the wood on one of the legs. "Something must've nicked the leg pretty good to make such a mark; something great enough to knock over the chair. So this chair must've been kicked for unusual reasons."

"What, but how?" Chris stuttered.

"So something did happen that night didn't it? Don't try to lie to me, I'll be able to tell." Sherlock told him intimidatingly.

"Please," Chris pleaded, "I can't tell you, I won't say a word."

Sherlock finished the man's thought, "They threatened you."

Chris nodded again and leaned in close to Sherlock lowering his voice, "But I can tell you one thing. They said they liked this place; that they thought they might come back."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows slightly in integument and started for the door leaving the frightened man.


	3. I Can't

So this is the chapter in which there is smut, I warn you though because I don't know if it's much to jive about. Reviews and comments are welcome and greatly appreciated! :)

~Kels

The soldier lay on the bed, covering his eyes with his forearm. His phone vibrated and he took it out to check.

**Why isn't your phone getting a signal from its GPS? –SH**

So that's what he was trying out now, tracking down John's phone. Sherlock had sent many texts such as these over the past two weeks. At first they were just asking where John was. Finally Sherlock got the right idea and was trying to get information over text. John always responded, even though he knew Sherlock didn't receive the messages. That must've been what Moriarty meant when John first tried to text Sherlock at the pub.

**Moriarty's cut off my phone somehow. –JW **

That was a text John was constantly sending, if his damn phone would work he'd be out of this room.

Suddenly the alarm clock went off, its annoying siren echoing in the room. "Sequence 1 has been completed! Let Sequence 2 begin!" Moriarty squealed over the speakers. John looked around in confusion, Moriarty hadn't spoken since he's commenced sequence one. John almost didn't even recognize his voice as it was the only one he'd heard besides his own in two weeks.

The alarm clock silenced and the metal door creaked open. John's heart almost stopped at the joy of escaping. But John's brief delight was drained when he saw a figure standing in the way. It was Moriarty standing with his hands in his pockets and an expectant look on his face.

John was bursting with hatred; he sprinted at Moriarty but just before taking him down John ran into a force. There was a glass wall separating the soldier and the consulting criminal. John was seething as he rubbed his forehead, which he'd slammed into the glass. John took his fists and hammered on the glass, "LET ME OUT!"

Moriarty stayed still and whined like a child, "But you've only gotten pass Sequence 1."

"I don't give a fuck!" John screamed being further frustrated by Moriarty's casual attitude. John took deep breathes trying to calm himself.

Moriarty swung his hips like he was dancing to a tune, forward and backward. Then spoke up, "You know, you look madder than me when you're in this cage. All those times you'd scream and punch and kick the walls."

John ignored Moriarty's comment, not being so proud of the times he'd lost himself in rage, and spoke suddenly, "You, you were the cabbie. You drove me to the pub."

Moriarty looked pleased that John had caught on, "Wasn't it such a pleasant ride."

"Pleasant?" John laughed then said losing all humor in his voice, "that's hilarious. So when are you going to let Sherlock find me?"

"But I'm so much like Sherlock, can't I do?" Moriarty implored.

John looked Moriarty up and down then told him firmly, "You are nothing like Sherlock."

"Are you so sure about that?" Moriarty provoked John with a grin, "Because from where I see it, the only difference between him and I, is that long ago he decided it'd be more fun to clean up after the dead bodies, instead of put them there."

"Is it?" John asked quizzically.

"Is it what, love."

"Is it more fun?" John repeated through a clenched jaw.

Moriarty smiled, like he had a true pride in being a killer and answered in a low voice, "You better believe it Johnny boy."

John stared at Moriarty, not even really surprised at his response. He hadn't really known what he expected from Moriarty; indeed you could never describe the madman as predictable.

Sherlock was poised on his feet in his leather chair, his elbows resting on his raised knees and his fingers to his lips.

It'd been two weeks.

Sherlock checked his messages on his mobile, nothing.

Sherlock stared at the screen with a stony face, which suddenly contorted and in a fury he stood in the chair and chucked the phone. It soared across the room and crashed through the window, Sherlock roared after it radiating with venom, "WHERE ARE YOU!?"

He sunk back down into the chair, holding his head in his hands. Sherlock pulled down his sleeve to scratch at his nicotine patches; he had four on his left, five on his right, and one on his neck.

They weren't helping.

Sherlock whispered harshly to himself, running his words together, "8 leads, 13 interrogations, 34 texts, and I," he abruptly stopped. He couldn't admit, at least not out loud, that he hadn't a clue where John was; that he was _impotent_.

Mrs. Hudson stumbled through the door, waving Sherlock's phone in the air with a cracked screen, "Sherlock, I found your mobile in the street! Are you alright?" she asked in her motherly way of concern.

Sherlock quickly raised his sleeve up and sighed, "Yes, quite," He climbed out of the chair and retrieved his phone just before shouldering on his overcoat. "I'll be out then."

"Again, Sherlock? Please just stay in for the evening; it's not good for you, staying out late every night like this." Mrs. Hudson pleaded sweetly, reaching for Sherlock's shoulder, but faltered and kept her hands to herself.

"Oh dear Mrs. Hudson, you don't have a thing to worry about me." Sherlock told her gently to reassure her anxieties. "I'll try to get back earlier, don't wait up."

The small woman threw her hands up in defeat, "You'd better, I don't like it when you stay out like this." she repeated dryly.

"Good night, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called over his shoulder breaking her off to argue anymore and slipped through the door.

Soon after Sherlock sulked in a bar stool, the same bar stool he sat at to interrogate Chris Brazels. He kept an eye out, always deducing everyone that came into the pub. But they were always normal people, no one could be suspected of murder or abduction.

The brooding man slouched in his stool and stared at the water he'd ordered critically. Chris slid over to him and asked slowly, "Want something a little stronger than rain, mate?"

Sherlock ridiculed, "You've asked me that every night, I've always said no. Why do you persistently pry?"

Chris shrugged, "People go to the pub to pick up girls or drink, and I'm just doing my job." The bartender got a look of seriousness over his face, "You're not here about what I said are you; about the killer maybe coming back?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and noted, "Well, it really took you that long to figure it out."

"Alright, alright." Chris submitted, "I'll leave you to it." as Chris scooted away to another costumer Sherlock resided to his thoughts, still hoping for a silver lining. But none came, none ever came.

He went over the things he knew again. From inspecting the pub he knew John had probably sat in the booth at the corner the night he disappeared. He knew there was some sort of struggle that night. He knew that John's date had died at the same time. John mustn't be dead, or else they would've found his body as well.

But this was all Sherlock knew, and it was insufficient at that to carry out an investigation. The night had passed once again without any more success. Sherlock trudged out of the pub and solemnly got a taxi.

Sherlock reached his flat and instantly staggered into his room and dropped onto his bed, not bothering to change his clothes. He stared at nothing in particular for a very long time, not thinking, just existing. He finally closed his eyes.

"Sherlock." A voice cooed in the silence and a hand smoothed down his side gingerly.

The tired man suddenly sat up in shock. Sherlock stared at the other man, coolly seated on the side of the bed. Sherlock grasped out at his arm, making sure that it was real. "John?" The soldier smiled lightly and nodded. Sherlock reeled in his mind but only watched John in disbelief.

Seeing that Sherlock wasn't going to make a move, John placed one hand on Sherlock's arm, the way Sherlock held John's own, "It's alright now." John made certain.

Sherlock tightly enfolded his arms around his friend and hid his face in John's warm neck. John wrapped the detective as well, with one arm around his waist and the other hand entangled in Sherlock's mess of curls. "John Watson," Sherlock breathed, "how on earth could I live without my doctor?"

"You don't have to, not anymore." John replied.

Sherlock couldn't help himself anymore, he just felt that there wouldn't be a consequence, as his fingers crept there way up the edge of John's shirt. The blonde reacted with a small gasp and then he planted an instinctive kiss on Sherlock's shoulder, as an acceptance to his terms. At this Sherlock ran his hands all the way up John chest, making him shiver, and brought up the sweater he was wearing to be discarded.

John gripped the collar of Sherlock's button up shirt and ripped it open, breaking the buttons. Sherlock bit his lip, John's occasional aggressive side always proved to turn him on. Sherlock shouldered off the ruined shirt and John tore through the other man's belt and trousers just above Sherlock's throbbing erection. Sherlock met John's mouth with a fervent force as they fell to the bed and the taller man worked off they other's pants. Sherlock explored John's teeth with his tongue, absorbing in every detail.

Sherlock had been yearning for this, for an exceedingly long time. Ever since John stepped into his lab, Sherlock could tell. John was homosexual, and was so deep in refutation that he didn't even know it himself. At first there wasn't a connection, between the detective and the soldier, but Sherlock became to know John's nerve and his friendship. Sherlock was convinced he himself was asexual, until he knew John.

Sherlock straddled John, parting their lips, and asked breathless, "Ready?"

John smiled, "Come here you." and pulled Sherlock closer to himself. Sherlock then slid into John, they both cried out instantaneously at the first jolt; Sherlock's more of a husky rumble, and John's a winded blare. Sherlock rocked back and forth again and again; indulging in the way John moaned and arched his back with every movement.

"John!" Sherlock shouted in warning as he reached he climaxed and came into his partner. Sherlock dropped his forehead to the pillow just next to John's head and lay on top of him.

Then John came, smothering both of their middles. "Sherlock…" John trailed as he wrapped his legs with Sherlock's long ones. They rested like that and fell asleep, dreaming empty dreams.

That morning Sherlock awoke with groggy eyes and was enveloped in pasty sheets. He sat up slowly looking around in the silence of the lonesome room. Sherlock smiled as he remembered why the sheets were so sticky. He rolled out of the bed, taking the sheets along with him and used it as a covering. As soon as he stepped out into the living room he lost his smile.

Nothing had changed, not one item. There were no jacket hung up, no shoes kicked off at the door, no made up tea, no set up blog at the computer; nothing. Sherlock knew it already, but just to check he shuffled to John's room; and it was just the same.

Sherlock paced aimlessly in John's room, "It," he murmured to himself, "it wasn't real." Sherlock went over the vision in his head, it only infuriated him more. But it had to be real, it felt so genuine.

Sherlock stepped to John's dresser and pulled open the top drawer. Inside sat a hand gun; Sherlock gripped it and looked it over for a long time. It was John's, though Sherlock had borrowed it many times before. Sherlock aimed the barrel at John's bed and shot several times with a hollow expression. _BANG, BANG, BANG!_ Sherlock sharply turned to the clock and shot through the time reading 13:38. _BANG! _

Sherlock eyes blurred and he got a salty taste in his mouth. No, Sherlock Holmes was not _weeping, _Sherlock had not done so since. The detective suddenly stopped his thoughts. He hadn't honestly cried since he was an adolescent, just around the time John and himself were talking about teenage rebellion.

Sherlock dropped his outstretched arm with the gun to his side, now that the anger had passed Sherlock was left with the silence that seemed so muffled compared to the gun shots. He exhaled; maybe he didn't have as much control over himself as he thought.

That night Sherlock sat at the bar, again. He'd avoided his next actions at all costs. But there were no more options. Sherlock sluggishly took out his mobile and started a text.

**Where is he? –SH**

There was almost an instant answer, he'd been expecting this.

**I've noticed he hasn't been taking his weekly commute to the pub. But I see you've been replacing him in that respect. –MH**

Sherlock rolled his eyes, of course Mycroft noticed.

**Tell me. –SH**

** I don't know where he is. –MH**

** Then find out. –SH**

** You're more than capable my dear brother. Why can't you find him yourself? –MH**

Sherlock stared at the text, trying to decide what he'd reply. That was the same question Sherlock had been asking himself, over and over again. Why couldn't he find John? Sherlock decided to admit the obvious truth, though it panged him to disclose it to his vexatious older brother.

**I can't. –SH**

Not wanting to get a text from Mycroft, Sherlock pocketed his mobile and burnished his eyes. He looked up keenly at the pub menu and studied it before sideways calling down the counter, "Chris."

"Yeah, mate?" Chris asked a little hesitantly, since Sherlock had avoided conversation with the bartender.

"I'd like to order something." Sherlock stated halfheartedly.

Chris smiled and stepped over closer to Sherlock, "What changed your mind?"

"Never mind it," Sherlock snapped, "but I need something stronger than what you have up on the menu."

Chris tried to keep his smile, but faltered, "Whatever do you mean?"

Sherlock finally made eye contact with him, "You know what I mean."  
Chris backed up a little, "Hey, I don't sell that sort of thing."

The tall man rolled his eyes and turned to face Chris, "Yes you do." Sherlock talked firmly, "You have 4 sticky notes tacked to the underside of the counter with a time and address, all inconspicuously positioned and written to be confusing. Now why would anyone make a reminder like that if they didn't want to hide what they were doing that place?

"Your fingers are raw and your prints flat, so you've made quite the effort to distort them. Probably to keep other dealers off your track, but you're not a heavy dealer or in deep, you're just paranoid. You haven't been doing this for very long, by the way you reacted to me you've only been in the business for about 1 year." Sherlock stretched out his shoulders and said a bit uncomfortably, "Now sell to me."

Chris looked Sherlock over and asked quizzically, "Well, while you're at it why don't you just list off everything I deal?"

"Certainly," Sherlock opened his mouth to continue, but Chris hushed him panicky. Sherlock assured him, "don't get your panties in a knot, Chris. I've been doing this a great deal longer than you."

"Alright," Chris breathed in, relaxing himself, "what is it then?"


	4. Frère Jacques

If you were excited to see how Sherlock will continue I'm sorry to disappoint. This chapter focuses mostly on John and Moriarty. Comments are welcomed and tremendously appreciated! :3

~Kels

Moriarty creaked open the door as silently as possible, hoping he wouldn't wake the sleeping man in the room. He took long and precise steps to the side of the bed, and tilted his head slightly to get a better look at John.

_John looks so divine while he's asleep, with his expression completely off guard, not like how he chains it when he's cross_, Moriarty thought, wanting so dearly that John would let his hair be unkempt all the time as it was now. He'd been trying to become close to his little pet the 3 weeks he'd been here. But whenever Moriarty tried to reach out, John would just stare off and stay mute. This had been such a disappointment; since Moriarty was so antsy all throughout Sequence 1 to be able to interact with him. But he did not break his plan; the first part had been a bit of a deprivation. Completely isolating John from the rest of the world; sort of rebooting him with solitude.

He kneelt so that his face was only a little ways above John's and softly sang, "Are you sleeping, are you sleeping, brother John, brother John?" The slumbering man began to arise, yet still didn't have a hold on his surroundings yet. Moriarty continued, "Morning bells are ringing, morning bells are ringing. Ding, dang dong, ding dang,"

John got his awareness back and exclaimed, "What the hell?!" cutting Moriarty off from his song. Moriarty frowned as he saw the man's face contort as he loathed it. John rapidly rolled off the other side of the bed, desperate to create space between them, and landed on his feet on the floor at the other side of the bed, ready for a fight. John was fully dressed, he didn't have anything else to change into, and didn't feel comfortable being half naked in front of the cameras that were undoubtedly on him.

Moriarty slid onto the bed and stretched out comfortably in his suit. He groaned deliberately, "Relax Johnny boy! It's not like I'm going to hurt you. Honestly I don't think I could hold a candle to a private like yourself in that area."

John studied Moriarty carefully, and then said contemptuously, "I'm a doctor, not a combatant."

Moriarty gazed at John confidently delighted to see that John had actually responded, "But there's an enormous difference between a doctor, and an army doctor." He probed, "You've killed before, have you not?"

"So?" John asked accusingly, knowing Moriarty was probably going to use it against him.

Moriarty shrugged and murmured dismissively, "Nothing, nothing." He paused then added excitedly, "It's just, don't you miss it? The chase, the _thrill! _How could you live without it?_"_

"I've moved on." John told him tightly.

Moriarty shook his head regretfully and smiled, "Oh, but I don't think you have. If you had, you wouldn't be parading around with our deductive friend. Without an adventure you're crippled; quite literally at that." and he laughed.

John's eye twitched as he tried to contain himself from lashing out at Moriarty. Who the hell did he think he was anyway? Just because he could deduce a few things about a person didn't mean Moriarty knew how they felt or what kind of person they were. Or did it? He never flaunted his skills as Sherlock did; Moriarty only acted on what he observed.

Moriarty saw how he'd angered John and played with it, "How many were gone in the end, five, ten? On the battle field, or in the doctor's camp?" He asked then with more integument, "How many of them had been your friend?"

"Shut up." John growled on the boil.

"How about this, love." He snappishly sat up cross-legged, "Join me, and see how close you can get to your military kick. Stop holding back, and have some fun!"

"Can you even hear yourself?" John asked in disgust, "You're psychotic!"

Moriarty lowered his head and mumbled almost idiotically, "At least I'll admit to it, unlike Sherlock."

John seized Moriarty's collar raising him to his knees on the bed and brought them face to face, "Sherlock is nothing like you, he's not a lunatic! Do you hear me?!" John shouted definitely. "Now get Sherlock to find me, I don't care how just end this and let me out!"

Moriarty exclaimed jokingly referring to his attire, "Watch the Westwood!"

"Take your Westwood and shove it up your arse!" John contorted curtly. Moriarty studied John with an amused expression, extremely aware of how close they were and thinking of something else he'd love to shove up his arse.

Moriarty spoke softly, "Oh love, this isn't about Sherlock. Sure, it started that way; but I've changed my focus. Look at yourself for a moment will you, so riled up." Moriarty couldn't help but consider how sexy it was. Moriarty padded forward toward John, moving to stand up as he spoke, "I think you should sort out your priorities as well. Because it doesn't matter what _Sherlock_ is doing out there while you're in here; all that's important is what's between these four steel walls for the termination of your captivity." he ended lowly in an almost commanding voice.

John fought the urge to punch Moriarty right in the eye, he could almost feel Moriarty's skull under his fist; but if he did it'd just make the madman right. It'd prove that John possessed the potential to be dangerous, even with his high moralities. That was why Moriarty had abducted him, John was sure of it; he was trying to attest he could break the man.

John slowly loosened his grip on Moriarty's collar and let his arms drop. He then said mocking Moriarty's words coldly, "But there's an enormous difference between defending a proper cause, and being a criminal."

Moriarty continued to smile for a long time before he clapped a hand on John's shoulder and told him chirpily, "See, that's why I like you Johnny boy. You're such a fiery, dutiful little soldier._ Nothing_ could shatter you!" John watched Moriarty in surprise as he turned and strode to the exit and the door close automatically after him.

John was dumbfounded; someone like Moriarty wouldn't declare his fault; unless it was a lie.

_So Moriarty isn't trying to bring up some sort of dark side in me, he was just messing with my mind, _John thought. _But then what, what could Moriarty possibly want from me?_

A ding noise sounding in his pocket distracted John from his train of thought, announcing that he'd received a text. It had nearly startled John, texts were coming in increasingly few and far between.

**The milk seems to run out quite rapidly without you here. –SH**

John almost laughed at that. Though Sherlock was very strong and independent he was also pitiful in some ways.

**You're hopeless. Got any new leads? Moriarty's being a bugger, as always –JW**

John always tried to keep his texts light. He didn't want to distress Sherlock, even though he never actually got them. The messages seemed to be the only thing John had rule over in the circumstances, and it was very little control.

John sat down at the edge of the bed and stared at his mobile, willing it to resound in an honest reply, not just another empty dispatch. But after several minutes the phone remained silent. John sighed audibly and set it on the bedside table.

He referred to the objects in this room with him as _the _bed, or _the _table, due to the fact that he was tremendously uncomfortable in this space. None of these things were his and yet he was forced to use them. He felt as though he was visiting someone else's home, and therefore he had to be courteous to a certain degree. But whenever he saw his host that feeling was dissipated and they went back to their usual squabbling ways.

John missed his flat, he missed Mrs. Hudson's caring manner, and he missed the little comfort he got from his blog. But mostly he missed Sherlock, and at the moment John even longed the messes, ventures, and severed heads that followed the detective.


	5. You Were My Only Friend

Sorry that this chapter took longer than the others, I had some trouble with it. But if you were excited to hear more from Sherlock you'll love this chapter. Questions, comments, reviews, and suggestions are welcome and extravagantly appreciated!

~Kels

Sherlock turned over the two small white pills in his hand with anticipation; he looked to the door to make sure Mrs. Hudson wouldn't barge in any time soon, and stared back down at the drugs. He started to think about the effects of this abuse; raise body temperature, increase heart rate and blood pressure, profuse sweating, loss of appetite, sleeplessness, dry mouth, tremors; but immediately shut off his thoughts. His head pounded in a migraine and his leg was prickly with numbness; withdrawal. Sherlock knew what he was doing to himself, but once he'd started his old habits those consequences seemed so very far away.

Mindlessly he placed the tablet onto his tongue and his awareness fogged over as it dissolved leisurely on his tongue. Sherlock let a sigh of elation escape his lips. He could almost feel his brain being invaded and he counted his breathes as they rang in his ears with their increasing speed. Sherlock sprawled back into his chair and waited for the delusions to take hold.

Much later Sherlock was alertly observing, feeling, _everything. _He marveled at the beauty these drugs seemed to open his eyes to. It made normal, boring life infinitely more fascinating. Sherlock could feel the molecules in the air brush his skin gently. He could see the sounds dissipating off of their source; strong and even at first, but growing weak and shaky as they traveled further into space. Other objects in the room appeared to morph with his own being, all becoming equal in some nameless sense. He felt the wonder and the excitement and the panic of feeling these typically undetected things.

Sherlock looked up to the vast ceiling and smiled at its familiarity, its plainness. But wait, it wasn't bare as he remembered it. The ceiling began to seep through with something red, something so intensely rosy and thick. Blood; Sherlock knew it, but he didn't know how. He also knew where it was coming from, and he didn't know how.

The scarlet blemish on the ceiling swelled and a single drop broke free from the rest. Sherlock felt an overwhelming surge of terror, that if the blood touched him he might be succumbed to the same fate as what produced it. He squirmed within the chair to elude the drop but only sunk down deeper into the leather. The blood seemed to leap at Sherlock until it met the tip of his nose and harmlessly trailed his cheek.

Sherlock still cautiously lifted his hand to wipe the fluid off his face, but when he checked his hand it was clean. He gradually lifted his vision to the ceiling again and found that it was also free of the red flush. But Sherlock knew what he'd felt and he was sure there was still something to investigate.

He dashed to the back window exhilarated and threw it open, swiftly sloping through the frame out onto the fire escape. He scaled the ladder and followed it all the way to the roof, which was constructed out of a quite flimsy and tattered material. He stepped carefully onto the ridge; he listened carefully to how his strides sounded until he hit a hollow spot and froze there. Sherlock was extremely acquainted with the building he lived in, and in that information he knew of a small accessible space between his flat's ceiling and the roof.

Well, accessible was a pretty general word.

The tall man began to bound, up and down, vigorously pumping his legs against the rooftop and beating the surface with all the power within him. Just then he heard a shout from a long distance to the ground. Sherlock halted and looked over the edge at the streets, still standing in the place he'd been thumping on.

On the sidewalk Mrs. Hudson stood, rattling with edginess having just watched Sherlock thrash around madly atop the building. "Sherlock, what on earth are you doing on the bloody roof?!" she hollered. The few passersby continued on with their way, it wasn't an infrequent event to see something eccentric on Baker Street.

Sherlock tried to collect himself, as he surely looked like a hectic mess, and he really did. He was only in his tousled loungewear, bare feet and all. His hair was a wild collection of curls in his eyes and he squinted even though it was nearly night time against the moon. If Mrs. Hudson had seen Sherlock up close she would've even more upset. He had aging bags under his eyes and a five o'clock shadow had begun to spread over his face. In short, Sherlock looked like a junkie.

He cleared his throat and waved to her reassuringly, "Everything's just fine Mrs. Hudson, don't mind me!" Suddenly there was a crack under his feet and before he could react the thin material gave way and took Sherlock with it, making a thundering and prolonged chorus of crashes. Mrs. Hudson yelped in fright and called to Sherlock for his state, but when he didn't answer she threw her hands up in defeat and rushed back into the flat building.

Sherlock lay in the very awkward position of having his neck at an angle much too close to 90 degrees and his back arched over the heap of wreckage from the rooftop. He brushed the dust out of his eyes and when he opened them he wasn't even under the roof; only the bottom half of his body was in the space he was trying to get to. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the inconvenience and pushed against the edge of the roof behind his head to wiggle himself into the crawl space.

He emerged into the shrouded darkness, only a small trickle of moonlight showing through the new hole in the roof. He peered at the far end of the chamber and could make out the faint outline of some sort of mass. Sherlock's breathe caught in his throat, could he really have been right about this?

He crawled slowly towards the form. The fear of his accuracy growing in his chest, and he cursed the way the pills make him lose grip of his mood. Sherlock advanced the figure until he was only a meter away, and he could tell that his first expectation was correct at the distance, and couldn't bring himself to inch any closer.

Sherlock eyes then adjusted to the dark, and there lay completely motionless, the body of his friend. "John." Sherlock gasped. He half expected for the empty shell to respond, but Sherlock was left in the silence. "John," he repeated, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I was so careless, I'm sorry I couldn't find you; and I'm sorry that," He stopped for a second to think over, Sherlock finally settled upon an answer.

"I'm sorry for everything. I was always an inconsiderate ass to you, and I never told you, how good you were to me and how much that meant to me. You weren't just my friend, you were my only friend." Sherlock reached out for Johns' limp arm, but when he came in contact, well, there was no contact. His hand passed right through the body and then just like John was gone, and Sherlock shook in anger and in grief as he was left alone once again.

_Why are you still persisting in this way? _John inquired silently. _I know you can be a cruel man, but this? This is torture. _

"So that's why I will never _ever _eat an apple." Moriarty finished his spiel animatedly waving his hands as he talked.

John kneaded his forehead and sighed, "Are you done quite yet?" Moriarty had been droning on for the past 40 minutes without end. He was worse than any girl John had ever dated by far, pacing back and forth around the room as John sat on the floor against the wall; and he'd just about had enough of pointless chatting.

Moriarty raised an eyebrow curiously and stopped in front of John, "Alright, enough about me. Tell me something about yourself." he demanded.

"Like what?" John muttered.

"Liiiiike," Moriarty thought, "like how is your sister, Harry right?"

"I wouldn't know," John answered, "because I haven't talked to her in 3 and half weeks!"

"Oh it's been much longer than that, you two aren't exactly close." Moriarty corrected ignoring John's outburst.

John rolled his eyes, "If you already know the answer why bother asking?"

"Because I'm trying to be polite." he replied, "Now tell me about Harry, or I'll be forced to tell you the story of how my first pet died." Moriarty leaned in and whispered cupping a hand close over his mouth, "Spoiler alert: My hamster, Albert, didn't live through my experimental dissection!"

"Fine, alright." John relented slightly worried at the thought of another prolonged description of a surely gruesome tale. Seeing that Moriarty already knew whatever he was going to say, and it would shut the criminal up for at least a little while, John continued grudgingly, "I suppose she's doing good, I mean, she still drinks. That I know of she hasn't gotten any worse though. If we were closer I might try and help her get better."

"But she's just as stubborn as you, isn't she?" Moriarty added seemingly capture in John's words.

John nodded with a reserved smile, "Yeah, stubborn."

After a long silence Moriarty crouched down and sat on the floor across from John leaning against the side of the bed. He rested his elbows on his knees and held his chin in his hands in a relaxed yet attentive position. "Tell me more," Moriarty said softly, "I'm sure it came as a shock when Harry came out of the closet."

John chuckled, "Maybe for the parents, not so much for me. By the time she was public about it I had already walked in on Harry with another girl a few times. When we were teenagers, and she'd go to parties and get smashed, I was the first person she'd call to get a ride home. After a while I cut her off from that, trying to get her to stop drinking. But she just got mad and wouldn't practically talk to me afterwards."

"And there's still tension about it today." Moriarty crooned.

"She thought I'd abandoned her, she," John suddenly stopped and looked at Moriarty for the near first time in their conversation, "Wait! Why am I telling you any of this?"

Moriarty didn't seem fazed by John accusation; he merely blinked then stated unbiased, "I'm not the monster you make me out to be, John." Moriarty watched as John thought this over. He noted that John rarely showed what he was thinking on his face, but there was always a gateway to his mind wide open through his eyes; and John was thinking exactly what Moriarty anticipated him to be. The crafty man suppressed his voice along with a wicked smile,_ Sequence 2 completed._


	6. The Pub

This chapter will finally have some Johnarty. I kinda feel like some of you might have some ideas for how this story should end (not that it's ending in the next chapter or anything I'm just thinking ahead) and I'm open for any suggestion you might have. If you'd like to contribute you can leave a review or private message me, any ideas will be showered with consideration and appreciation! :3

~Kels

Moriarty reclined in a swivel chair set up to a counter with lots of buttons in a very dark room; he didn't know what many of the buttons did, perhaps he should've read the manual, oh well. The obscurity was only illuminated by several computer screens. Four of them were displaying different angles of the room he'd been keeping his pet in. He watched closely as John fidgeted with his mobile, and it almost made the criminal angry how he continued to stay so faithful to the very few and vague messages Sherlock still sent.

"Speaking of…" Moriarty mused casting an aloof glance towards the other three screens monitoring 221 Baker Street. On the video Sherlock was in the kitchen lacing his own heroine with ecstasy; Moriarty raised an eyebrow and exclaimed, "I nearly forgot I still had those cameras operating!" He swapped off the power switches for those computers and cameras uttering, "Might as well save some energy."

Moriarty then pressed a large green button, the one that opened the door to John's quarters. He brought his feet up to the edge of the counter and pushed off of it, making his chair launch away from the screens, and before meeting the exit he spun out of his seat and strode through the door to the hallway.

Moriarty had unexpectedly taken a liking to John, and was nothing but eager to see him. He never thought he'd see what it was that Sherlock saw in the doctor, and in a way he still didn't. Sherlock's appeal to John was the kindness, after all John was Sherlock's only friend. But for Moriarty it was quite the opposite, John was the only one who was so bluntly honest about the felon's rotten nature. Even now that they were closer, John would still through in the obligatory insult.

He entered into the blindingly well-lit hallway that almost seemed to not have a floor, wall, or ceiling by the piercing white that carried through it; Moriarty turned sharply to the bulky door beginning to open. He walked slowly, one foot directly in front of the other swaying with his hands in his pockets. Strangely Moriarty didn't bother to close the large door behind him.

John was still studying his mobile; apparently Moriarty wasn't the only one who'd gotten used to the limited company. The convict waited with a patience that was rapidly running out for his subject to redirect his attention. Before he lost all that tolerance Moriarty narrowed his eyes and told John coarsely, "I have half a mind to take that silly device away from you. It's not like he's going to the send something anytime soon anyway." He made a point not to actually say Sherlock's name, he wanted that man to be as far away from John's mind as possible.

"Right," John mumbled absentmindedly, he flipped shut the phone and tossed it over his shoulder onto the bed, "you're right. No point in it anymore is there." John had begun giving up on ever being able to see the light of day again, by Sherlock's texts which were completely belligerent and random now. John was refusing, up until then, to admit to the possibility that Sherlock couldn't find him.

Moriarty smiled that he'd gotten his way and changed his façade to something more inviting. _What will it be today? _Moriarty pondered, _maybe his first unsatisfactory kiss, or perhaps another recollection of the war. My dear, taking trips down memory lane with John has certainly gotten us far._

John lay back on the bed and asked wearily, "What will it be today, Jim?"

Moriarty was nearly taken aback, was John seriously becoming bored with him, _him? _Moriarty felt another surge of irritation; then he hadn't any time to lose, he'd have to hurry the process if he wanted his plan to work. Moriarty spoke hurried and tensely, "The pub, Old Man's Pub. You went there every weekend, and with almost every visit taken up with a new woman. Why?" as if he didn't already know.

John paused for a long moment as he considered it, he finally responded with a shrug of the shoulder and replied, "Why not? Just being social that's all; and it's not like I make it my business to switch out a girl every week."

"That's quite modest of you to say, with your amorous reputation." Moriarty observed synthetically.

"What would you happen to know about my reputation?" John inquired with a raise of question and challenge in his tone.

"You're not appeased by these rendezvous."

"Well, clearly, otherwise I wouldn't be dating around."

"What do you think you're looking for? What is it that these women don't possess?" Moriarty inquired daringly.

John was still; it was a fair question, so why couldn't he come up with an answer. He began to think of that itch in his mind that no one seemed to be able to ease. Perhaps that was it, why he would always find himself in that wretched pub. But that reason seemed to become more of an excuse lately.

"Oh come on," Moriarty asserted dramatically, "there has to be something you're looking for."

Still John was silent drawing his eyebrows together, he came to question all the nights he'd spent in a bar stool and a drink in his hand.

Moriarty moved to make arresting eye contact with the dazed man and probed, "Or perhaps you're not hunting for the right kind of pray altogether."

"What's that supposed to mean?" John asked tersely and sat up, guarding himself; but from what he did not know.

"Do you honestly think you could hide even the most _microscopic_ of secrets from me?" Moriarty paused, taking in an excited breath and he hated what he was doing to his adversary. He told John in a calm yet firm voice, "No, you can't. Not even secrets you don't entirely recognize yourself."

Now John was _angry_, John was manic just at the edge of ferocity. He'd forgotten how manipulating Moriarty could be; John had honestly thought there was a decent person under all of Moriarty's bullshit. He knew he was livid with his host, but John still didn't know why.

"Get out." John hissed scorning Moriarty.

"Excuse me?"

"You're just trying to get a rise out of me, well you've got it! Now get out!" John bellowed, and then he wavered, covering it up by dipping his head and pressing his finger to his temple.

Moriarty saw it, troubled he stepped closer to John. He tried to take a supportive hold onto the man's arm, but John cringed back and hollered again more unforgiving than ever, "GET OUT!"

The consulting criminal stood straighter as his expression hardened over and he quickly detached himself. After a moment he spoke frigidly to no one in particular, "That's the thing about ordinary people; they turn anything they don't understand into the enemy." With that Moriarty treaded out the door.

Several days later and the soldier was stiffly pacing back and forth, waiting for a command, waiting for a text, waiting for anything that could be contrasted against the room and his own inhabitants. John had been considering his next move all the while, and it had barely helped him at all. He had the slightest notion for what Moriarty had meant, and yet he still couldn't put it to words. There was something he could do to figure it out, and he hated the fact that he was seriously considering it.

John paced a few more times, grasping for another option that never would reveal itself. He finally stopped in his tracks and called into the static air, feeling that he was disturbing its rest, "Jim, if you can hear me," he smirked bitterly and mumbled, "of course you can." John lifted his head higher to ensure he'd made the right decision, "Could we talk?"

Moriarty heard this, sitting eagerly at the edge of the swivel chair to the computer screens in his booth. He'd nearly gone crazed waiting for his guest to give in and call out to him. And if any good had come from the time they spent completely separate was that John had barely taken a glance at his mobile the whole time.

The microphone was already pressed to Moriarty's lips and he had to restrain himself from shouting into the receiver right then and there, but took a moment to let John worry. He held his tongue until he saw John begin to pace once again and then he declared into the microphone, "You didn't say the magic word!"

John looked up and heaved a sigh that was a mixture of annoyance and relief and called strictly, "Just get your ass down here."

Moriarty hadn't wasted a single second; he practically opened the door before John said a thing. And in no time he slipped through the door and was standing face to face with his dearest John Watson. They only watched each other for a long time at first, Moriarty waiting for John's move, and John trying to conjure up a phrase.

He finally came across a sentence that didn't seem to be significant enough, but it was all he could find, "I've been thinking, about what you said."

"And?" Moriarty asked edgily tapping his foot. John opened his mouth to say something that Moriarty could tell to be open-ended. He interjected earnestly, "I suppose I'd expected your incomprehension, but at this point, it truly is sad."

"What is?" John huffed giving up on having the upper hand.

Moriarty nodded slowly and moved into the other man's personal space, taking each step with great care and deliberation. Only inches from John face Moriarty studied his grey-blue eyes expectantly and purred, "Can't you just feel your pupils dilate, as if they're trying to draw in their subject closer. I know I can."

"What are you," John started but was cut off and made immobile as Moriarty quickly skirted around to his back and whispered bewitchingly in the doctor's ear.

"You can't hide from me, love." The back of John's neck prickled with a chill at Moriarty's voice, and he couldn't help but be exceedingly conscious of how his heart wrestled inside his chest. And Moriarty grinned at his effect on John and leaned closer to the shorter man's neck having his lips barley brushing the skin as he spoke just loud enough for John to hear, "I know what you desire." Then he quickly spun back around John to walk out the door and said indifferently, "But what do I know, I'm just a genius."

Moriarty took several steps before John finally came back into realism and blurted out, "Wait!" reaching out for his host. Moriarty smirked impishly, he could practically feel the wires connecting in John's mind, and he waited for a confession; but it didn't come, at least not how he'd expected. Before Moriarty even turned around there was a hand at his collar, pulling him into a hasty and striking kiss.

Moriarty indulged in every second of the kiss, loving the way John's soft lips felt against his own, and the taste he couldn't even perceive. It was short lived and Moriarty felt that John pulled away much too early, but when John did he couldn't bring himself to peel his hands away from the white-knuckled clutch he had on Moriarty's collar.

John caught his breath and tried to ignore his pants that were becoming stressed, but failed miserably as he gave the other man a look that said something along the lines of _this is your fault._ Moriarty responded by taking John's hands, slowly removing them from his shirt, and towed his soldier towards the bed.

"No, I don't," John breathed heavily in refusal.

"Shhh," Moriarty hushed him gingerly, "it's alright. We're going to get your sea legs."

After a moment of uncertainty John nodded and let himself be lead to the bed. John tugged on Moriarty's tie as he converged their lips in sloppy and desperate surges, while Moriarty started fumbling with John's pants, letting all civility dispel from their touch.

They met the edge of the bed and fell together onto the soft sheets. Moriarty worked his lips all the way down from John's neck to the base of his erection. John felt flutters in his mind and couldn't help but gasp with every impression; and he had to grip the sheets to create an anchor to this moment. Moriarty finally delayed no longer and tongued his way over the cock. He let his hands travel along the rest of his partner as he began to bob his head.

John was bound by pleasure, one he'd never felt before in his life. God what a thing he'd been missing out on all these years. John was holding in now and he cried out reaching climax, "Moriarty!" without the will to last any longer. As John let loose his pent up semen Moriarty swallowed, treating himself with his love's essence and doing it gladly.

And for this time it seemed that it'd been the only time John's itch had finally departed.


	7. I'm Coming Home

I'm excited to hear what you guys think of this chapter. Comment, suggestions, and private messages are welcome and appreciated!

~kels

Two men lay in the bed, tangled in a mess of limbs and sheets. One of them bare chested, the other only draped by a ripped open button up shirt; both without pants. The taller man with the shirt, Moriarty, had relished the new time he and John were in, ever since John had discovered his true nature and completed Sequence 3. In fact they'd completed Sequence 3 a few times now. John tried to remember how long ago that he'd found himself in this room. Was it a few weeks, or a few months? His lover knew, in fact he'd counted each day, Moriarty had at that point been keeping John for the past 65 days.

"Oh John, you've ruined my new shirt." Moriarty whined good-humoredly.

"Yeah yeah," John muttered brushing it off, "like you really care."

Moriarty chuckled teasingly, "No, I don't; it's worth it." He then started to unravel himself from the jumble of sheets. In the background there was a buzzing and Moriarty stopped short and listened tensely, he looked around until his eyes fell upon the small machinery of John's mobile.

Moriarty froze for a moment, but John didn't even give the phone a second glance. Don't get this wrong, Moriarty couldn't be happier that John had taken Sherlock out of sight and out of mind, yet he still worried. You see, the consultant knew fully well that John would have to leave this 6 by 8 yard space eventually, and then his companion would have to see the horrific condition of his beloved friend. The most daunting thing about this awareness was that Moriarty hadn't a sound idea of what state Sherlock was in, and that he knew exactly how John would react. He almost wished he'd let John leave sooner, and that the doctor would've gone home to better company. But Moriarty still wasn't quite ready to exit this idyllic arrangement.

Moriarty forced himself to rigidly ask, "Are you going to get that?"

"Maybe later." John shrugged. Honestly John was done being tortured by the false hope of salvage from Sherlock, and he didn't even want that anymore. It wasn't like he got reassurance from the texts either, now they were all sent aimlessly, with random and undecipherable reports. John would never say it aloud and he never let it dwell in his mind for more than a few seconds, but he knew Sherlock had given up the search. He just couldn't figure out why Sherlock continued to send messages.

Moriarty took up the mobile in his hand robotically and opened the new text. He locked down his expression placing the phone back on the bedside table and told John evenly, "I've got some business to attend to." and he started tugging back on his pants making his way to the door.

"In such a hurry?" John groaned in question.

Just as Moriarty was about to step out of the door he looked back at John still in the bed and reconsidered his abrupt leaving. He shook his head and on impulse hastily padded to the side of the bed to place a quick kiss on John's cheek, "It won't take long." and then strode out.

As the blonde was left in the room once again he fell back down to the sheets from his sitting up position and relaxed for a while. John had gotten used to being alone in the room for long periods of time and started letting his head roam free to fill in the silence. He hated doing that, it always lead to a memory or idea that he'd rather leave alone, but John considered the last moments before his lover had gone. _Why did he go so suddenly but took the time to check my mobile. _So John rolled over and reached for his phone opening the message.

**You're a doctor, am I supposed to clean off the needle with varying drugs? –SH**

John hurled himself up to sit straight in bed, re-reading the small screen of his phone several times before trusting that he'd seen it correctly. Sherlock had never said anything about drugs before; but no, it couldn't be. Sherlock had cleaned himself up, he'd gotten to the point of not having to use nicotine patches on even especially hard cases. John looked over the text with heavily vexed eyes thinking, _dear god Sherlock, what have you done to yourself, _as he started a reply.

**I'm coming home. –JW**

And so John would, he was determined to get out and help Sherlock. He didn't know if Moriarty would let him go, or if he'd have to break out, but John was going to make it to Baker Street.

Moriarty watched the screens grimly in his darkened booth as John got out of the bed and began to hurriedly get dressed; and he despised that he was always right.

About an hour later John sat keenly at the edge of his bed waiting for Moriarty to return and his host did not disappoint, arriving as soon he knew that John was ready. He stepped through the door keeping an unfeeling and composed exposure.

"I need to go, Jim." John stated firmly, still unsure how Moriarty would react.

Moriarty just nodded, lowering his head to a bit of an unnatural position. He finally answered, "I know."

John stood cautiously and asked, "Then, I can go?"

"Yeah," The criminal waved his hand dismissively as if to shoo away how much he knew it meant to John as the soldier began a relieved beam and added irritably, "don't be too excited about it."

John took Moriarty's hand as it was still in the air and spoke resolutely with a smile still in his eyes, "Just because I won't be in your cage anymore doesn't mean that this," he gestured pointing to himself and the other man, "is over."

Moriarty smirked mischievously and rephrased John's words, "Just because you won't be in my cage anymore doesn't mean you're not still my pet."

"Shut up, I was never your _pet_." John retorted briskly, yet his grin was unrelenting. As if on cue the door began to open; in fact it was on cue, Moriarty had set it to open after 3 minutes. John started for the door, "Well, come on then." But just as John had passed Moriarty and wasn't facing him, the dark-haired man dropped his cheerful performance and he realized that this was Sequence 4, of his second plan at least.

Moriarty had changed his tactics many times for the recent events. His original plan was to abduct John and simply keep him isolated in this room giving Sherlock no clue to finding him and see just how the detective would cope. But then he saw that John was gay and didn't even know it. His second scheme was to exploit this by any means necessary and unattached; after Sherlock had been on the edge for a while Moriarty would return the now homosexual John back to Baker Street which would just drive Sherlock senseless. But that 'unattached' part of the second strategy didn't go… according to plan. Moriarty had made a third plot, but it didn't really matter anymore because he hadn't thought this far ahead, and he scolded himself severely for it. Although he was a madman Moriarty always had a plan, he'd always be one step ahead of everyone else. So now all that was left for him was to grudgingly turn to his previous maneuvers.

Plastering on a smile, Moriarty turned around to follow John out the door. From there Moriarty lead John through the sharp and winding hallways out to a final exit door. Moriarty propped open the door curtly and they stepped out into a very bleakly grey garage with nothing but a taxi already fitted with a driver. "You have a cab ready?" John asked inquisitively.

Moriarty gave a polite laugh and lied, "I always have employees on duty." But honestly Moriarty took the hour after he'd left John earlier to make arrangements for his dispatcher, having foreseen John's decision. They walked to the taxi door and John scooted onto the back seat closing it after him and gave Moriarty a parting wave through the window. The convict nodded back in farewell and the driver made its way out of the garage. Moriarty watched it regretfully but didn't leave much time to dwell before returning inside to prepare for the procedures of Sequence 4.

The interior of the cab was just like any other, but knowing it was the same vehicle he was captured in gave John the faint feeling of his condition as he was last there. Not that he wasn't resentful of the situation, but he could almost laugh at the memory now. John was jittery the entire drive, which for a man such as himself wasn't saying much to describe his exterior appearance; but it does profile how his thoughts spun in uncertainty of what he was to find at his flat.

Slowly John began to recognize the landmarks as the streets passed and he was having a hard time believe that he was actually getting closer and closer to Baker Street. Then they turned onto the very familiar, yet very much altered road. The cab came to a stop directly in front of the black door that read 221B. John staggered out of the car and approached the entrance opening it and stepping inside with hesitation. He felt like he was trespassing, intruding on grounds that he was no longer welcome in. Similarly to what he had experienced coming back to London from Afghanistan.

John climbed the stairs taking his time and was almost startled when the boards protested under his feet as they always had in their old age. But he continued and started to hear a violin playing a tune that held great sorrow in every note, one that if you turned out the lights and sat in complete silence except that forbidding lullaby could make you cry. John couldn't help but take this song as a warning, and it only brought him more fright.

He was now at the door and he opened with great care as the violin's sound filled John's ears, he stepped in and froze.

Now remember that it was normal for the flat to be in not the most organized of states, but this was something entirely different. Everything was in desolation; books were ripped and thrown across the floor, the mirror above the fireplace was shattered and its shards still were scattered near its position, the coffee table had been flung to its side and therefore its former contents sprawled all around, there were many bullets whole all over the flat but most of them resided on the ceiling, one of the windows had a small breakthrough, the only chair still upright and in its usual location was the one John had primarily used, and this was only a view of the living room. But standing in the scene of destruction stood the daunting man known as Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock still serenely drew the bow along the string of his violin and faced the window; seemingly unaware of the chaos he was among. John gawked at the sight unable to come across any words except, "Sherlock…"

The tall man stopped his melody immediately and turned halfheartedly towards his friend. Sherlock didn't give John two glances before he placed his instrument down and sighed in weak annoyance, "You again."

"What?" John asked not knowing what to think.

"I thought I was sober, I guess not. Well, what do you want this time?" Sherlock inquired spitefully and took steps precisely even through all the obstacles on the floor towards John. When John didn't answer out of pure shock Sherlock just shook his head and as he was going to walk pass the doctor muttered, "Let's just get this over with shall we?" and he clasped his hand onto John's shoulder. Sherlock was suddenly motionless; everything about him seemed to be put on hold like he was petrified except the wheels working in his mind.

_I've never been able to touch him, _and Sherlock worked through the facts doing what he knew best, deduction.

John was simply aghast now, Sherlock didn't move, he didn't even _blink_. But he was afraid of disrupting whatever Sherlock was doing so he stood still and tried to call out to him, "Sherlock what's going on, what's wrong?"

And then just as quickly as it came the episode ended and Sherlock seemed to step back into reality. John exhaled with a small letup and he tried to take a hold of Sherlock's wrist as if it'd help anchor him down. But Sherlock withdrew hastily stepping back away from his friend he thought to be dead. "I," Sherlock stuttered with a dazed expression, "you," and then his face hardened as he got the right name to blame and he hissed with a disgusted tone, "Moriarty."

"It's alright now," John steadily told the man who had a look in his eye that trademarked a lunatics'.

In that moment Sherlock could only see that those were the same words John had said in his own vile dream, "NO, don't you dare lie to me, it's not alright, nothing about this is alright!" Sherlock snarled finally detonating from his wrath. "I searched for you; I examined every single detail to your disappearance, I stopped taking cases to make more time to find you, I've paid my underground connections nearly three-thousand pounds, every second of my life for the past 3 months has been dedicated to YOU, and I never had anything to show for it! You abandoned me! Don't believe for a moment that I can't see it, that I can't see what Moriarty has done to you, that I can't see how he's taken you from me! Now you think you can just waltzback into this flat and everything will be ALRIGHT?_"_

John only gaped at Sherlock, paralyzed at seeing the detective in such viciousness. But there was only an instant of silence before the air was broken like a knife through butter with an obnoxious ringing sounding over and over. Sherlock muttered peevishly, "Excuse me for a moment won't you." and turned around, taking the alarm as an escape from the dialogue, and he withdrew his lively mobile out of his pocket. It was receiving message after message of texts from John.

**You've got to find me. –JW**

**I don't know what Moriarty plans to do with me. –JW**

**Moriarty keeps talking about these sequences, any idea what he'd talking about? –JW**

**So I'll be home before Christmas right? –JW**

**Please hurry. –JW**

Sherlock couldn't help but twitch as he quickly turned his phone to silent and it continued to get all the texts. _Of course Moriarty let John see my messages, _Sherlock thought trying to ignore the fact that John had replied to every one; _I only wish I could remember sending half of them. _

"I'm sorry." John murmured softly, tugging Sherlock's mind back to the moment.

Sherlock closed his eyes as he composed himself and said, "Cue arrival,"

"What?" John asked

"in three, two, one."

"Hellooooo!" a melodious voice rang through the room as Moriarty swung in, leaning with the door charismaticlly.


	8. Could've Played The Damn Violin Better

Sorry this chapter took so long, I feel really guilty about it! Any comments, suggestions, PMs or reviews are welcome and severely appreciated!

~Kels

"I hope you don't mind." Moriarty sneered stepping further into the uncomfortable space, "I wanted to check up on Johnny boy." He paused, giving John a knowing glance and then turned to Sherlock addressing him with authoritative yet juvenile reasoning, "For the record, I have not _taken _John from you. If I hadn't come along and opened his eyes someone else would have. God knows it wouldn't have been you either, since you don't have the balls to make a move."

"Jim," John began a question, but Sherlock cut him off, noting sourly that John had referred to Moriarty as Jim.

"Nice to see you again, been busy?" Sherlock asked faking a pleasant tone through a clenched jaw.

Moriarty smirked slyly, he stepped over close to John and said deliberately, "_Very _busy." then leaned in and planted a kiss on the shorter man's shoulder.

John pulled away, not so much because he didn't like it, but because he was still weary of showing any public affection, especially if it was in front of Sherlock. "Stop that!" John demanded assertively.

As soon as John was out of the way Sherlock seized Moriarty's collar and pinned him against a wall still keeping a relatively civil exposure, "Hear that Moriarty," he growled piercing through the suited man with his eyes, "he said to _stop._"

"Not in a million years."

"What do you think this is, a competition?"

"Well if it is there's been a clear winner." Moriarty said speaking of to himself.

"Quit trying to one up each other and tell me what you're bickering about!" John interjected crossly.

"Yes Sherlock, what are we bickering about?" Moriarty asked intrigued.

"Moriarty." Sherlock objected in a warning tightening his clutch on the man's collar.

"You never even acknowledged John's struggle did you. Never thought, hmm I should probably _help _him."

"Wait," John asked Sherlock edgily, "you knew? You knew that I,"

"Oh please how couldn't I?" Sherlock quickly said brushing the retained information off and John made a disapproving expression, "You're practically flaming."

"So are you." Moriarty lightly told Sherlock

"So are you." Sherlock sneered back at the convict, and in response Moriarty only nodded with a raised eyebrow in affirmation.

"Oh just shut up!" John shouted having done being ignored in the conversation. He hadn't expected anything like this to happen. John never thought things were going to be so complicated once he returned home. He had hoped Moriarty wouldn't cause such trouble. And he never thought he was going to find out Sherlock was also, as Moriarty would put it, hunting for an alternate prey. "You two are acting like children and I'm not going to sit and watch you fight like it." and with that John stormed to his room.

Sherlock watched after John for a moment before he released his grip on Moriarty's shirt and began pacing having more important things on his mind for him to focus on being so livid. After a few seconds of silence a voice called through the flat, "What the hell!?" and Sherlock knew that John had discovered the bullet holes in the bed, he cursed under his breath but continued his back and forth movement.

Moriarty watched the man's incessant walk for a while before he hummed, "You're trying to figure out a way to make John feel better."

"So?" Sherlock mumbled

"Well you know John only came back because he found out you were sticking that needle in your arm again. If I were you I'd get cleaned up, and I'd get cleaned up _fast_." Moriarty told him firmly.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows at Moriarty with distrust, then he saw what the consulting criminal was doing, "You're only helping me because you want John to be happy."

Moriarty disregarded the comment and replied, "You could start by removing your little meth lab in the kitchen."

Sherlock hadn't expected for Moriarty to actually care about the doctor, and the fact was troubling to say the least. But instead of letting his worry show Sherlock only stared at Moriarty and asked with a little more bite returning to his voice, "Aren't you going to leave?"

Moriarty laughed humorlessly, "Like I can trust you alone with John anymore? I'm not going anywhere." and Sherlock knew he meant it. But that didn't mean he had to be a good host.

Sighing tiredly, Sherlock stepped into the kitchen and began dismantling the dozens upon dozens of beakers, all containing different variation of something illegal. And he felt a twinge of shame at the vast hole he'd slipped into, have been carried away with the relief of all these drugs. The hardest part of disposing of the substances was that he knew that in a few hours he'd be suffering withdrawal. But Sherlock wouldn't show weakness, and so by the end of the hour there wasn't a single drop of his addiction in the flat.

He went back into the living room and for the first time Sherlock saw how he'd destroyed it. He'd have to try and clean up all the mess, perhaps even make it more organized than before, John would like that. Then Sherlock realized something was missing, Moriarty was gone. In alarm Sherlock ran to only place he knew the madman would leave to. He swept through stopping suddenly in front of John's bedroom door. Sherlock opened the door slowly and as quietly as possible, he was correct as he spotted Moriarty leaning against the dresser and gazing at John sleeping in his bed.

Sherlock whispered scornfully, "Miss your cameras Moriarty?"

"Indeed," Moriarty whispered back, "I suppose I've gotten used to having 24 hour surveillance."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grumbled impatiently, "Well I've gotten used to having drugs, we all have to make sacrifices." and he abruptly grabbed the back of Moriarty's collar dragging him out into the hallway.

"Hey!" Moriarty shouted in protest, but Sherlock did not stop, pulling him through the hall and then sending Moriarty into the living room before him with a small shove.

"You won't leave, fine. At least make yourself useful." And Sherlock tossed Moriarty a broom.

Moriarty looked up at Sherlock from the petty cleaning instrument and was ready to correct the wretched man of his insolence. But then he saw that Sherlock wasn't attempting to belittle him as he watched Sherlock start to pull up the coffee table right side up and gather its previous coasters and papers. _He thinks organizing this mess will please John, _Moriarty thought relenting to the chore taking the broom in his hands and began to sweep up the shards of mirror that were on the floor, _then it's worth my time._

The next morning John groggily opened his eyes and had no idea where he was. He jumped up and began to shout in panic before he realized that he was merely in his bedroom and not the bedroom he'd been staying for 3 months. John had gotten so used to the other setting, this one was almost foreign. Last night's events came back to the now alert man, and he wished he didn't have to leave his room and face the repercussions. So John shoved the, for reasons still unknown, torn covers off and slid out of the bed trudging to the hallway.

He entered the living room but was stopped in his tracks at its condition. Everything was perfectly tidy aside from the bullet holes contrasting along the walls and ceiling. This site made John's remembrance of the area's ruin seem far away, and he began to think that perhaps the last 3 months were a dream. But that insinuation was refuted as arms snaked its way to embrace John from the back.

He quickly realized that it was Moriarty and John told himself he should pull away because he was still mad with him. So John gently unraveled himself from Moriarty's hold and further studied the cleanliness of the flat. This gesture didn't go without notice as Moriarty frowned but decided not to say anything about it.

"So you're still here." John commented slowly.

Moriarty shrugged, "I have absolutely nothing else that is as crucial." He watched John scan the flat and asked mildly, "Like it?"

John made an effort to quickly scan every inch of the space and he answered distracted, "Yes, it's very," he pause thinking of who could've managed to do such a good restoration, "nice. Did you get poor Mrs. Hudson to organize this place?"

"Yes, she was quite willing though, said she couldn't stand to leave such a mess unattended." Moriarty lied as he took a seat on the couch.

John suddenly realized that there was music in the background, a violin to be exact, playing a very complex yet dawdling tune. "Sherlock's in his room." John murmured.

"Riveting observation, love." Moriarty teased smiling.

Reminded by the melody John wondered if he should take action to his theory of Sherlock being back on drugs. He wished to believe that Sherlock had never started fueling his old cravings. But just to check John went about the flat and searched through all of the hiding places he knew of that Sherlock would hide cigarettes in and Moriarty watched him do it with a grimace.

All of them were vacant. John didn't know if he should take that as a good or bad thing, what else could explain how diluted Sherlock seemed when he first walked in? Pondering this John listened more attentively to the music still lightly sounding Sherlock's presence in his room. Suddenly the song's notes began to shake and produced a jagged unpleasant sound, then the music stopped altogether for several seconds before it resumed just as sharply as it'd stopped. He found the variation odd and finally John couldn't stand his uncertainty any longer, he started towards the door to Sherlock's room.

Moriarty caught John by the wrist and he warned trying to sound casual and hide his worry by saying enthrallingly, "Ah, ah, ah, I wouldn't do that. Sherlock isn't feeling very well."

John peered at Moriarty cautiously and exclaimed, "I'm a doctor, why didn't you get me earlier?"

"Just let him rest."

"Why would you care?"

"John," Moriarty warned more masterfully, but was cut off as the door opened swiftly.

Sherlock stood in the doorway with a face completely wiped of any emotion, "You're being very loud, I'd ask that you keep it down." and he moved to shut the door, but before it was shut all the way John stopped it with his hand and pushed his way into the room.

"Oh no you don't, you're not just going to shut everyone out because you're having a bad day. Let me help you." John claimed to Sherlock with sureness

Sherlock stared blankly as John waited for an answer. Sherlock knew exactly what John wanted to hear, a diagnosis so it could be acted upon. And Sherlock knew exactly what would cure his current ailing that he was trying to hide. But that remedy was just a relapse. So he'd have to endure his eye persisting to twitch, his running nose, his nausea, and this aching feeling that was striking his body. Sherlock finally sighed with an extension of the truth, "I just have a simple case of Rhinosinusitis; ibuprofen will do."

"Rhinosinusitis?" John asked with an amused raised eyebrow.

"The common cold." Moriarty clarified from his position leaning against the doorway

"I know what rhinosinusitis is," the doctor retorted, "and you don't have it."

Sherlock forced a smile; he had hoped that John wouldn't catch the whole in his pronounced 'cold'. "Of course I do, you're getting out of practice, John."

"I know you well enough to notice when you're in withdrawal, and this is a rough one if you can barely play that bloody instrument." John stated resolutely referring to Sherlock's violin. Moriarty dropped his head to the door frame in disappointment with a loud _thud,_ and Sherlock slumped as he let go of the act,confirming John's impression. The blonde man ignored it and continued to Sherlock, "You're going to get some rest, now get in that bed. And no, 2 hours doesn't count as a good nights' sleep." He then made his way out of the room to find that ibuprofen, leaving Sherlock and Moriarty alone.

After looking to see that John wasn't in ear shot, Moriarty stepped closer to Sherlock and told him rudely, "You didn't even try to hide it."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and responded offended, "I do believe I'm the one who disposed of every liquid, powder, and pill that was in my possession."

"You could've played the damn violin better." Moriarty spat.

"I think you should be more worried about the attention John will soon be giving me." Sherlock said with a slight smirk, "Who knows, I could be doing a lot more than sleeping in this bed."

Moriarty didn't have the time to respond like he wanted to as John walked back in with a piping cup of tea and a few pain killers. Moriarty had to settle with only staring back at Sherlock, keeping a calm exposure and answered with a sinister yet sing-song voice as he trotted out of the room, "No you won't."


End file.
